


Into the Light Out of Darkness

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [36]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Torture, Politics, Singing, Smut, Witcher Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: The Warlord of the North and his council have finally decided to conquer the rest of Redania - but one of Milena's old friends throws their best-laid plans into disarray.It turns out Vizimir of Redania has been keeping more secrets than anyone ever dreamed.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 771
Kudos: 2698





	1. Chapter 1

It turns out that it’s easy to _say,_ “King Vizimir has broken the treaty and enraged the Wolf,” and a lot harder to plan the invasion of the last remaining unconquered third of Redania. Not because of any lack of military might - three hundred Witchers is enough to defeat any force Vizimir might be able to put into the field, without any trouble whatsoever - but because Vizimir’s breaches of the treaty are all so...subtle.

The late and unlamented king of Kovir tried to invade Caingorn, which was a clear provocation of the Warlord; nobody even batted an eye when Geralt led his army into battle and ended up adding Kovir to his empire. And the absolute _idiocy_ of Henselt of Temeria’s attempt to assassinate the White Wolf meant that Eskel’s swift, ruthless, and terrifyingly effective raid on Vizima was fairly easily explained to Calanthe of Cintra and Gwidon of Aedirn and even the increasingly twitchy and frankly not terribly intelligent Mathen of Cidaris as being the only possible response to such an attack. But Vizimir hasn’t attacked the Wolf’s lands, nor the Wolf himself, and his treaty breaches are all _little_ things. Letting his uncle arrange a marriage to another young and low-ranking noblewoman. Turning a blind eye to his nobles’ mistreatment of their peasants...but only those things which Vizimir _could_ plausibly argue he just didn’t know about. Allowing his nobles to harass the caravans of goods from the Wolf’s lands...a _little_ bit. Tiny nitpicky breaches, like he’s testing to see how far he can go.

And Geralt has built his reputation on killing _monsters_. Duke _Velen_ might be a monster, but Vizimir isn’t being one _openly_ , at the moment. At least, not that Liliana and Treyse have been able to discover in a few short weeks of research.

Jaskier grimaces down at the map spread out over the table: unconquered Redania, drawn in firm black lines, with little lead troop markers here and there, and one of Eskel’s knives driven into the table in the center of Tretogor. “So to make a long story short, he’s being _sneaky_.”

“Unfortunately,” Treyse says. “Most blatant thing he’s done is allow Velen to try to get his hands on little Livi, and that was being kept _very_ quiet. He’s an ass, but so’re most kings; that’s hardly reason to take him down.”

“And starting a war over one girl, who wasn’t under our protection at the time, is…” Eskel trails off and sighs. “Fuck knows I _would_ take Velen’s head, happily, for Livi, but…”

Vesemir just makes a soft, angry noise and glares at the map. Yennefer taps her nails on the table, a rhythmic noise of irritation.

Ciri says quietly, “Papa? Isn’t _any_ breach of the treaty a - a broken oath?”

Geralt nods solemnly. “It is, cub,” he says. “But other courts aren’t....Witcher-honest.”

“Sort of the other thing,” Jaskier says. “I’m pretty sure someone was honest to me once in Tretogor - I asked if it was raining.”

“And they told you?” Yen asks, smirking.

“She was new to court,” Jaskier says, and Yen chuckles.

“Little breaches like this - things that only affect the peasantry and merchants and _minor_ nobles, aren’t considered as important,” she tells Ciri, with the astonishing gentleness that only the cub ever brings out in her. “Nobles like Vizimir or Velen - or like Henselt was, and his cronies - they don’t really think of other people as _people_. Lesser nobles are _slightly_ important; merchants are tools, to be used and discarded as needed; and peasants are just draft animals, not even worthy of the consideration you might give a good horse or hound or hawk.”

“That’s _wrong_ ,” Ciri says, scowling.

“Oh, very much so,” Eskel says. “But nobles tend to be like that.” He snorts. “Less so in the Wolf’s lands, these days. Amazing what the prospect of having irritated Witchers descend upon you if you fuck up will do for people’s manners.”

“...That’s an idea,” Jaskier says. It may not be a _good_ idea, but it’s an idea.

“What is?” Vesemir asks warily.

“Descending on Vizimir,” Jaskier says. “It’s been a while since the Wolf made a state visit to Redania, and if we were _in_ Tretogor for a little while, there’s a decent chance we might actually find a treaty breach big enough to explain the Wolf’s sudden desire to have all of Redania under his banner.”

“I don’t actually _want_ all of Redania,” Geralt points out. “I just…” he trails off into a grumpy hum.

“Just want kings to stop being _monsters_ ,” Jaskier finishes for him, and leans over to press a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. Geralt sighs and turns his head to catch Jaskier’s lips with his, turning the chaste peck into a slow, soft caress.

“That,” Geralt agrees as they part. Vesemir sighs at them, more amused than annoyed. Yen and Eskel just grin. Treyse is examining the map, ignoring them entirely.

“If we don’t portal,” he says thoughtfully. “Or not to Tretogor, at least. Portal to New Ghelibol and _ride_ to Tretogor. Say we want to inspect the caravan routes, or something.”

“We _do_ get a number of complaints about the difference in road quality between the Wolf’s Redania and Vizimir’s,” Eskel says, and grins wider when everyone turns to look at him. “I can show you Livi’s ledger, if you like.”

“That girl is worth her weight in _dimeritium_ ,” Vesemir says. “Not yet three weeks here and I can’t imagine how we managed without her. Do you think we could find another dozen like her?”

Jaskier blinks at Vesemir for a long moment, ideas unrolling in his mind like a dropped scroll. “Oh dear,” Yen says, sounding very amused. “That’s his composing face.”

“Not composing,” Jaskier says. “A dozen like her - and inspecting the caravan routes - Geralt, my love, next year you need to go on progress.”

“What?” Geralt asks. Yen claps her hands.

“Oh! Yes! Brilliant little flower! That is _exactly_ what he needs to do!”

“Please enlighten the poor ignorant Witchers?” Eskel says warily.

“We need more people who actually know how to _run_ a noble household,” Jaskier says, ticking the points off on his fingers as he goes. “The people who are trained in that _and_ available tend to be noble daughters: Livi, Milena, Liliana, all of them have skills we _need_.” The rest of the council all nod fervent agreement. “We _also_ need to start making sure Geralt _keeps_ the loyalty of his growing number of vassal-kings, and a traditional way to do that is to take wards of the court.”

“Hostages,” Treyse says.

“Sort of,” Jaskier agrees. “Extremely well-treated hostages who are often given important positions and responsibilities. And Ciri doesn’t actually _need_ any more ladies-in-waiting - your wardrobe’s not nearly fancy enough, cub -” Ciri giggles - “but that would make a very good _excuse_ for accepting more noble girls into the Wolf’s court. So. Geralt goes on progress to accept the renewed oaths of his vassal-kings and as many nobles as we can arrange to meet, and Treyse and Liliana get to expand their network, and we get to spot any lurking problems and show Ciri off to everyone as Geralt’s heir. And we keep our eyes open for any noble or royal girls with the skills to be useful and the courage to be _willing_ to come to the Wolf’s court, and offer to add them to Ciri’s household. It’s an honor for them to be given that opportunity, it’s a chance for _us_ to gain some more very necessary assistance, and it’ll help keep their brothers and fathers from getting any unfortunate ideas.”

“Alright,” Eskel says, “that sounds sensible; our Wolf will hate every bit of it, but it’s probably the right thing to do. It doesn’t help with Redania, though.”

“True,” Jaskier admits. “Well. Honestly, a state visit _is_ my best idea. At the very least we can ask Vizimir what the _fuck_ he was thinking, allowing his uncle to marry again.”

Geralt sighs. “ _Politics_ ,” he spits, like the word itself is poison.

“Politics,” Eskel agrees wearily. “It’s much _easier_ when they’re monsters. We know how to deal with monsters.”

“If we’re going on a state visit,” Yen says, “who are we bringing?”

There’s a short pause, and everyone looks at Ciri. Ciri frowns in concentration, and takes several minutes to think about it; everyone waits patiently for her to work out whatever conclusion she’s hunting. “Honestly, Papa, I _don’t_ think I should go,” she says at last, and holds up one hand, ticking the reasons off on her fingers. “First off, I’ve only been training with the boys since last winter, and I don’t want them to think I’m getting special time away just because I’m your cub. Second, my first really big trip ought to be the progress, not a visit to a foreign court. Third, Vizimir’s the one who wanted to marry me off to his grandson, and if I’m there, he might start _that_ again, which, eww, and it’ll be easier for you to refuse if I’m _not_ there. And fourth, if you _do_ find something and there’s a battle, you’d all be distracted by trying to protect me, and that might get someone hurt.”

Yen looks about as proud as Jaskier feels. “Darling cub, you _have_ been paying attention,” she says warmly. “Those are all very good points.”

Jaskier leans over and tugs at Ciri’s braid, grinning at her. “You’re going to be a holy terror once you’re grown, and I’m going to be delighted to see it. My loves, I think Ciri and Vesemir should be left in charge here, with Triss for magical backup as needed. We’ll need Yen.”

“I’m not happy about you going to Redania _again_ ,” Eskel grumbles.

“Can’t say as it fills me with glee,” Jaskier allows. “I think I should be there, but if you all think I should stay here with Ciri, I will. But you need to bring either me or Milena - you need _someone_ who knows Redania’s court.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, frowning hard and tapping his fingers on the tabletop. “Milena, if she agrees,” he says at last. “I can’t - anywhere else, lark, I’d bring you. But not Redania.”

Jaskier sighs. “Alright. Milena, if she agrees, with Lambert and Aiden to guard her of course. But I expect daily reports! And no leaving anything out just because you think it might upset me!”

Yen chuckles. “I’ll keep them honest, little flower.”

Jaskier sags, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hell with honest,” he says softly. “Keep them _safe_ , Yen. I know they can kill any monster ever hatched, but politics -”

“My oath on it,” Yen says gently, and leans over to touch Jaskier’s hand. “I’ll bring your Wolves back to you in one piece, never fear.”

“Really,” Eskel says, “the politics aren’t going to be the actually _dangerous_ part of this whole mess.” He’s grinning crookedly. “We’ve still got to tell Lambert we’re bringing his lady back into Redania, after all, assuming she agrees.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, raising one eyebrow. “Cub’s learning diplomacy. Good practice, hm?”

“ _Papa,_ ” Ciri giggles. Then her eyes narrow and she grins wickedly. “Alright, I’ll do it - _if_ you promise to come with me to the harvest festival in Wolvenburg this year.”

Geralt’s eyes go wide, and he turns to Jaskier in mock astonishment. “What have you been teaching my cub?”

“Effective negotiation techniques,” Jaskier grins. “Very well done, Ciri!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and turns back to Ciri. “Counter offer: a new sword.”

Ciri shakes her head. “No deal. Three days at the Wolvenburg harvest festival or nothing.”

“Two days.”

“Done!” Ciri cries triumphantly, and sticks out a hand. Geralt chuckles and shakes it firmly.

“Ruthless little menace,” he says. “Well done.”

Ciri beams and hops off her chair. “Right, I’m off to find Milena, then.” She scampers out, leaving the rest of the council chuckling behind her.

“I almost wish we could take her with us and set her loose on Vizimir’s council,” Eskel says, grinning. “They wouldn’t know what hit them.”

Jaskier laughs along with everyone else, but his heart isn’t quite in it. He’d just as soon Ciri _never_ encounter Vizimir’s council - nor any other high-ranking Redanian noblemen, for that matter. They would not see a high-spirited, intelligent, fierce young woman, with a burning sense of justice and a heart big enough to encompass the whole world. They would see a chess piece - one young enough to manipulate as they pleased.

They would learn their error quickly, to be sure, but not quickly enough.

“Right then,” Yen says, leaning back and grinning. “So, who wants to draft the letter letting Vizimir know we’re coming?”

“I will,” Eskel says. “I can take the opportunity to make it clear that Livi is under our protection, while I’m at it.”

“Lovely,” Yen says. “Bring it along when it’s done, and I’ll portal it over.”

“I’ll have it for you by supper,” Eskel promises, and the council meeting breaks up in - if not high good humor - at least a pleasant sense of satisfaction at having a plan.

*

“So I’m perfectly willing to go to Redania,” Milena says, the morning after the council meeting, passing Jaskier a bar of soap and snagging her own preferred rosewater soap out of the basket. “But what do you want me to do, that Yen and the Witchers can’t?”

Jaskier grins as he slides into the blood-hot water. “Well, you’re a lot less terrifying than Yen is.” He winks at Yen, who grins back.

“True,” she says, stretching out languidly and lifting one hand to admire her ever-perfect nails. “I _am_ terrifying. As I should be.”

“You are a wonder and a delight, and all wise men fear you,” Jaskier assures her. “What I’m hoping _you’ll_ be able to do, Milena, is get in touch with your friends, and see if they’ve heard anything that didn’t make it into the letters they send you.”

Milena smiles. “I can do that. It will be good to see everyone again - oh! I can bring my gifts for Natalia! I did tell you she’s expecting?”

“You mentioned, yes,” Jaskier says. “She’s married to Karol now, is she not?”

“Yes, and he’s just inherited the County of Piana,” Milena confirms. “His father had an unfortunate hunting accident.”

“...Hunting accident, or ‘hunting accident’?” Jaskier asks warily. Redanian politics can be fairly bloody, after all, and that’s the second important noble who’s died in the last three or four months.

“A true accident, as far as I can tell,” Milena assures him. “Or if it wasn’t, Karol is quite unaware. He’s rather overwhelmed, by Natalia’s account, what with the countship having just landed on his shoulders _and_ her first pregnancy, but he’s a stout fellow. He’ll manage.”

“Poor lad,” Jaskier says sympathetically. “Still, better him that that cousin of his - what was his name again?”

“Robert,” Milena says, wrinkling her nose a little. “Gods, he’s an ass. If he comes to speak with me while we’re in Redania, Lady Yen, would you mind cursing him, just a little? He doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

Yen smiles like a cat. “If he dares lay a hand on you, darling, he’ll lose fingers - assuming Lambert doesn’t just run him through.”

“Ooh, oh dear,” Milena says, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Lambert’s going to be very overprotective.” She considers that for a minute as Jaskier finishes lathering up his hair. “Actually, you know, I’m alright with that.”

Jaskier laughs. “I suspect you’re going to spend the entire trip to Redania with him and Aiden within arm’s reach, extremely ready to stab anyone who even looks at you funny. And you know, even if your father is in disgrace, your sister _is_ a queen. I expect everyone is going to treat you with immense deference, at least to your face.”

“And then say dreadfully rude things about me behind my back, yes, I remember how _that_ goes,” Milena sighs. “Hopefully _far_ enough behind my back that Lambert doesn’t hear.”

“Triss, darling, can we place bets on how many people Lambert ends up stabbing while we’re in Redania?” Yen asks.

Triss chuckles. “Sure, but we should probably specify this is for people he stabs _before_ Geralt declares war on Vizimir, if that occurs.”

“Well, naturally,” Yen says. “Stabbing in wartime is different.”

Milena sighs and rubs her forehead. “Three crowns on him stabbing at _least_ two people,” she says wearily. “And another crown on Aiden stabbing at least one.”

Jaskier slips under the water to rinse out his hair, snorting with laughter. Oh, Witchers. Even if this _doesn’t_ end in a war, Tretogor is never going to be the same.

*

“You’ve been quiet all day, catmint,” Eskel observes over supper a week later, the night before Geralt and Eskel and their escort set out for Redania. Jaskier sighs.

“I just don’t like being apart from you,” he says. “I like sending you into the pit of backstabbing assholes which is the Redanian court _without_ me even less.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, nuzzling at the nape of his neck. “Sorry.”

“No, I _understand_ ,” Jaskier says, turning to press a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “I don’t think anyone _would_ be foolish enough to attack me, but I thought that when I went to Oxenfurt, too, and look how that turned out. And it makes sense to leave at least half the council here to keep everything ticking along smoothly - and honestly I’m the least use if it comes to anything truly messy. I just don’t like it.”

“Don’t like being apart from _you_ , either,” Geralt sighs.

“We’re both going to be dreadfully out of sorts,” Eskel says, grinning crookedly. “Not that we wouldn’t be grouchy _anyhow_ , what with Vizimir being an absolute shit.”

“Ain’t _that_ the fuckin’ truth,” Lambert sighs. “Are you sure we can’t just stab him and have done?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Eskel says. “Wish we could. And no, you can’t stab Velen either, not unless he actually does something stab-worthy”

“Him just fucking _existing_ is stab-worthy,” Lambert grumbles.

“Witcher diplomacy is so straightforward,” Jaskier says. “Hey, Yen, do you think you could cast a spell on the Redanian court to make them all tell the truth for a day?”

Yen taps a finger against her lips, frowning. “I think I would run out of chaos energy halfway through,” she says at last. “That or they’d all drop dead of apoplexy from trying to lie.”

Jaskier can’t help laughing. “Too true,” he agrees. “It’d be funny for the first few minutes, though.” He sighs and stands, slinging his lute over his chest like the weapon it is. “Any requests tonight, my loves?”

“Something lighthearted,” Eskel says.

“Something lighthearted,” Jaskier muses. “Hm. Alright, I’ve got a new one I think will be amusing - and before you start worrying, yes, I ran it past Serrit already.”

“Past Serrit?” Geralt rumbles, eyebrows rising, and Jaskier grins at him and saunters around the end of the table, plucking a few preliminary notes as the hall falls silent.

“My friends,” he says, beaming at everyone impartially, “tonight I have for you the debut of _The Red Wolf and the Serpent_.”

There’s a brief burst of laughter, and up at the Wolf table, Gweld’s ears go pink. Serrit just looks smug.

“ _Once there was a red wolf, among the leaves of green / wandering the world as wolves are wont to do / he came upon a serpent, lovely in her sable sheen / and said unto himself, This lovely serpent I shall woo!_ ”

*

There’s a proverb, Jaskier thinks later, about best-laid plans.


	2. Chapter 2

Aleksander isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling as he kneels before the king. Grief, perhaps - his father is not three months dead, and for all that they were not close, still, his father was his _father_. Shock, definitely: he’d begun to think his grandfather was immortal, so his death barely three days ago was almost more surprising than Father’s, though admittedly less horrific - at least his grandfather went quickly, instead of lingering for weeks. A sort of numbness masking the panic over the fact that he’s about to become a _duke_ , responsible for an entire duchy full of people who he _knows_ have been mistreated for longer than he’s been alive.

“I swear upon my life that I will be faithful to Vizimir, king of unconquered Redania, never cause harm to him nor to those under his protection, and will observe my homage to him completely and without deceit,” he recites, and King Vizimir smiles like an ancient turtle, smugly pleased.

“Rise, then, Aleksander, duke of Velen,” he intones. “We are sure you will be as faithful to Us as your grandfather was, cousin.”

“I hope only to please you, sire,” Aleksander says as he stands, the words as thoughtless as breathing. He’s been at court long enough to learn what to say, even in situations like this, and by this point he could probably get through a court occasion in his sleep, repeating the same worn phrases over and over as required.

“Naturally,” King Vizimir says, and rises, slinging an arm over Aleksander’s shoulders. “Well! Let us speak privately, cousin. As you have inherited my beloved uncle’s estate, you have of course also inherited his responsibilities.”

As far as Aleksander knew, Duke Velen didn’t _have_ any responsibilities besides sitting on the king’s council and agreeing with whatever King Vizimir proposed. But - “Naturally, sire, it will be my honor to take up whatever responsibilities my grandfather bore.”

“Good, good!” King Vizimir says, patting Aleksander heavily on the shoulder. “Just what I wanted to hear.” He steers Aleksander into one of the private rooms off to the side of the throne room, where to Aleksander’s surprise the king’s chief sorcerer, Master Gustavus, is waiting, along with a nondescript man Aleksander’s never seen before, maybe as old as Aleksander’s father was before he died.

“Master Gustavus,” Aleksander says, inclining his head a little and reminding himself that a duke doesn’t bow to anyone but a king.

“Your Grace,” Master Gustavus says, bowing elegantly. “It is an honor.”

The door closes, and King Vizimir turns to look at Aleksander solemnly. “This is the closest-guarded secret of Our reign which We place in your hands,” he says.

“I am honored,” Aleksander says, and braces himself.

It’s worse than he could have ever imagined.

And worse yet, as he is still reeling, Master Gustavus snatches up his hand and pricks one finger with a dagger; the blood doesn’t drip, but runs down the blade to be absorbed into the handle, and Aleksander feels a chill run down his spine.

“My apologies for the discourtesy,” Master Gustavus says smoothly, smiling like a snake. “You understand the security of the realm requires some sacrifices. I am afraid you will not be able to speak of this matter to anyone who does not already know of it.”

“I understand completely,” Aleksander says, fighting back the urge to scream in horror.

Master Gustavus’s smile widens. “Naturally. You are a clever young man. But let us speak of happier matters - this is Konrad, one of my own apprentices; he was your grandfather’s privy secretary, and will be yours; he is entirely trustworthy, even on such matters.”

“It will be a pleasure to accept his service, I am sure,” Aleksander says, smiling at Konrad weakly. So not even his correspondence is to be private anymore.

Somehow, he says all the proper things, and manages to act something vaguely resembling normal for the reception celebrating his rise to the ducal seat, and the feast, and the dancing afterwards.

Late that night, alone in his rooms, even his manservant sent away, he finishes heaving the last of the night’s feast into the chamberpot and pushes the stinking pot away, bending to rest his forehead against the cool marble of the floor. Gods. _Gods_. He knew his grandfather was a monster - knew there were things hidden in the Velen estate which would make him ill to discover - but this, this is far beyond what he ever expected. It’s a horror beyond words.

And he can’t put an end to it, not if he wants to keep his head attached.

*

The duchy of Velen - as distinct from the Temerian city of _Gors_ Velen, with whom the duchy’s lords have a long-standing debate as to which has the older name - is east and south of Tretogor, bordered on its southern edge by the fast-flowing Pontar River. It is good cropland, fertile and easily plowed, and Velen butter is renowned for its richness.

Aleksander rides through it in a daze, heading for the keep at the center of the duchy. He has bodyguards now, men of the king’s own guard who have been tasked with protecting the newest duke of Redania, and Master Gustavus has promised to meet him at the keep - _Aleksander’s_ keep, now - to show him the horrors he has inherited. Not that Master Gustavus called them horrors. _Glorious experiments_ was the phrase he used.

The peasants watch him pass with very understandable wariness. Even through the haze of horror and grief and general misery, Aleksander can tell they fear him; and why shouldn’t they? For all they know, he’s as much of a monster as his grandfather was. Even if he isn’t that bad, he might easily be as indifferent and coldly cruel as his father was wont to be. He was raised in Rinde and has spent the last few years in Tretogor - his new subjects know nothing of him, nor he of them.

He _does_ notice that a shockingly high number of the women he sees have truly unpleasant facial scars. That puzzles him for quite a while, until finally they pass through a small town and he sees a young woman with very _new_ scars, still raised and red - a very _pretty_ young woman, or she would have been, without the scars.

Oh.

They’re a protection - a way to keep his grandfather’s attention from lighting on them.

That’s horrifying.

Aleksander already knew that his grandfather was a monster, but this - this pretty young woman of no more than fourteen with a neatly-stitched scar down each cheek, the physical evidence of her prayers that his grandfather might never choose _her_ for his lusts - truly brings it home. He spends the rest of the ride feeling sick to his stomach, gritting his teeth against the queasiness so he won’t disgrace himself in front of the guards.

He can’t really talk to anyone about his utter horror at seeing his grandfather’s subjects so scarred and terrified - not the guards, of course, who would be baffled at having a duke speak to them as companions, but also not his faithful manservant Patryk, because Konrad is always hovering nearby, ostensibly happy to run any errands Aleksander might have, smiling with a smooth oiliness which makes Aleksander’s skin crawl, and even when Konrad _isn’t_ right there, the man’s a mage - Aleksander can’t ever be sure he isn’t listening somehow. He’s genuinely relieved when they reach the keep and he can dismiss Konrad, at least for a little while, to see what correspondence has arrived since the late duke departed.

The keep has turned over the years from a truly martial edifice to something much more like a mansion; the walls have been dismantled in half a dozen places to allow for outbuildings or cattle-gates or gardens, and the keep itself has been added onto half a dozen times, in half a dozen styles. It looks rather a mess, honestly, and Aleksander decides that he hates it. It is far safer to hate a building than a king, after all - or a mage, for that matter.

The steward is waiting for him on the steps, with the rest of the household lined up tidily behind him. There are absolutely no young women among them - no scullery maids, no chambermaids, no goose-girls. The cook is a woman old enough to be Aleksander’s mother, with a scar upon her cheek that looks older than Aleksander is; the head housekeeper is another matronly woman, also scarred. There are no other women.

Aleksander greets them all, from steward to pot-boy, as politely as he can through a haze of exhaustion and horror. He informs the steward that Masker Gustavus will be arriving in the morning; the steward bows and replies that Master Gustavus has a suite of rooms that has been set aside for him, by the old duke’s command, which are always ready for him.

Aleksander just hopes those rooms are a long way from his own.

His grandfather’s rooms are...less horrifying than he expected, actually. The big bed is going to need a new mattress - Aleksander will just sleep on the couch until that can be arranged, because he is _not_ going to sleep in the same bed his grandfather has surely used to sate his awful lusts on who knows how many innocents - but otherwise the rooms are well-furnished and comfortable. It’s almost worse than if they’d been full of torture implements or hideous artwork. Aleksander could live here without changing much at all, and the idea that his tastes in decoration are _that_ similar to his grandfather’s is just...utterly unpalatable.

He spends the rest of the afternoon being shown around the keep by the stone-faced steward; he has vague memories of playing here when he was young, on the occasions his father brought him to visit, but a child’s hazy recollections aren’t terribly useful. It’s a big sprawling building, with a ballroom and a formal dining room and a library which clearly hasn’t been used in years, given the dust on the handsome leatherbound tomes, and it’s a little overwhelming, honestly. Aleksander takes his supper in his rooms and sends his manservant away after the meal; he can’t bear to keep the pretense of being alright, even for faithful Patryk, who has been with him for a decade now.

He can’t sleep. It feels like the very walls remember the cruelties which have been performed within these rooms - seems like the echoes of long-faded screams still shiver from the stones. He paces in front of the fireplace - unlit now, with the summer warmth seeping in even through the stone - and wishes bitterly that his father had not died. Father would have - well, who knows what Father would have done, but whatever it was, it would not have ended with Aleksander here, alone in the rooms that his grandfather made a chamber of horrors.

As long as he can’t sleep, he may as well go see the _actual_ chamber of horrors, now, without either Konrad or Master Gustavus to see his true reaction. It can’t be any worse than his imagination has made it.

...Surely, it cannot be worse.

*

Aren wakes from his meditation as the door creaks open. They aren’t usually disturbed this late at night, and when they are, it’s never a good sign. He rises and moves to the front of the cage, gesturing for the girls to stay down; maybe if they look like they’re sleeping, whoever this is will settle for Aren instead.

The newcomer isn’t one of the mages, neither the supercilious one in fancy robes nor the older-looking one who pretends to be a secretary, and isn’t the Duke, either. He’s a man in his mid-twenties, perhaps, short and stocky, with messy brown hair and dark circles under his brown eyes, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown and carrying a candle, and he smells of grief and disgust. He lights the lantern beside the door, fumbling a bit, and then turns to survey the room, and his eyes meet Aren’s.

He startles, and his eyes go wide. “Fuck,” he whispers, and takes a slow step forward. “You really are a Witcher.”

Aren crosses his arms over his chest and meets the man’s gaze squarely, not bothering to respond. Yes, he’s a Witcher. Even the mage has not managed to take _that_ from him.

The man looks down, and sees the sleeping girls, and the scent of disgust grows stronger. “Fuck,” he whispers again. “They’re so young.”

Aren snorts. Young, yes, but if this man thinks they’re easy prey, he’s got another think coming. Even the Duke wasn’t foolish enough to try anything with Aren’s cubs _after_ the terrible false Trials changed them.

The man takes another wary step forward. “How long?” he asks softly. “How long have you been down here, Witcher?”

Aren shrugs. How the fuck is he supposed to know? He hasn’t seen the sun in so long he’s almost forgotten what it looks like. The only way he ever finds out what year it is is when a new girl survives the false Trials and is added to their little pride, and it’s been a while since Ada’s Trials. Maybe a year, he’s not sure. By his best guess, he’s been caged fifteen years at least, probably more.

The man turns in place, looking around the room. Aren doesn’t bother to follow his gaze; he’s long since memorized every inch of this dungeon. The steel-barred cage, the stone table, the workbenches, the bloodstained floor; all of it is as familiar to him as his own hands, after so long.

Finally the man looks back at Aren. He seems...shaken; his scent is disgust and deep misery. “How many?” he asks softly. “How many have died here?”

That, Aren actually knows. He’s counted. It’s his blood that’s been killing the girls, after all - his blood, distilled and concentrated until it is a sort of horrid mockery of the Grasses. It doesn’t work as well as the Grasses do. “Hundred and eight,” he says, and the man reels back a step, whether at the number or at the wreckage of Aren’s voice, he isn’t sure.

Screaming for long enough will ruin even a Witcher’s throat, Aren has learned. The mages seemed very interested by that. Thank whatever gods might be listening, they haven't decided to replicate that particular experiment on any of the girls. Yet.

“A hundred and eight,” the man whispers. “Ye gods.”

Aren’s beginning to wonder who the fellow is. He obviously isn’t a new mage - they wouldn’t be horrified by any of this - and by the surreptitious nature of his visit, he’s probably not a new servant, either. There are three servants who wait on the mages and tend to Aren and the girls, all of them covered in so many compulsion spells that they never raise their eyes from the floor nor flinch at the tasks they are assigned; this fellow clearly isn’t compelled, at least as far as Aren can tell, but this whole place reeks of magic; if there _is_ a spell on him, Aren might not be able to tell unless he gets closer. Aren’s not going to _ask_ who he is, of course; he learned a long time ago not to speak unless he absolutely has to, and never without prompting, unless it’s to draw attention away from the girls. This man already seems more interested in Aren.

There’s a long silence, and finally the man says, quietly, “What School are you, Witcher?”

“Manticore,” Aren rasps. That, too, the mages have not managed to take from him, though they’ve taken the medallion from around his throat and the swords from his back and the Path from beneath his feet. He is Aren of the Manticores, and will be so until he dies.

“Oh,” the man says. And then, very softly, “What is your name?”

“Aren.”

“Aren,” the man murmurs. “Aren of the Manticores. Oh...fuck.” He shakes his head. “And the girls? Are they - are they from Velen?”

Aren narrows his eyes and glares, shifting to put himself more fully between this man and the girls. The man flinches a little. “I’m not - I won’t - I’m not my grandfather,” he says weakly. “I _won’t_ be like him. I just - want to know if - if he betrayed his people in this, too.”

That sounds like he’s the Duke’s grandson. If the Duke catches him here, it will probably not go well for him - but that’s none of Aren’s business, and frankly Aren doesn’t care. A little noble brat come to gawk at the captive Witcher is no one Aren needs to give a shit about.

He’s not planning on answering the man - let him wonder, it’s none of his business really - but Zia is apparently tired of staying silent and still. She uncoils from the floor with the liquid grace of a true Witcher, and tucks herself under Aren’s arm, glaring at the visitor with her unsettling particolored, cat-slitted eyes. He flinches quite satisfactorily.

“What’s it to you, you whoreson cur?” she snaps. Aren sighs a little. He has been trying to teach her better manners, but a year or two of what few lessons he can manage when the mages aren’t here hasn’t made much of an impression; street urchins aren’t usually known for their courtesy, after all.

The man - the _nobleman_ , if he’s the Duke’s grandson - doesn’t react with the violent anger Aren expects, though. He winces, but he stinks of shame, not rage. “I have inherited my grandfather’s estates,” he tells Zia softly. “Which means I have inherited his cruelties, as well. I would know how...how many of his own people he has harmed.”

“The Duke is _dead_?” Zia blurts. Aren is just as startled. He’d begun to think the man _couldn’t_ die, that his own evil and spite sustained him like a mage’s chaos. Behind him, Maja and Elena and Ada all rouse from their pretense at sleep, too, crowding up around him and staring at the man in shock and wonder; to give him what credit he’s due, he doesn’t flinch from being the focus of five pairs of slitted, suspicious eyes.

“Died seven days back,” the man says. “He - ah -” He rubs the back of his neck. “He’d arranged another marriage, to a friend of mine actually, and she ran away before the wedding, about two months back. We got word just a week ago that she made it safely to Kaer Morhen somehow, and now she’s under the Warlord’s protection, and when my grandfather heard, he got so angry his heart gave out in the middle of a council session.”

“Good for her,” Zia says fiercely. Aren nods. It’s good to hear that _someone_ escaped the Duke, even if _they’re_ all still caged. And there’s a sort of vicious pleasure to the thought that a girl’s courage has caused the old man’s death at last.

“An answer for an answer,” Maja says, quiet and composed as always. “Ada and I are from Velen; Zia and Elena are from Tretogor. The ones who died, we are not entirely sure, but we think perhaps half from the Duke’s lands and half from the capital.”

The man looks ill. “Gods.”

“Gods got nothing to do with it, clotpole,” Zia says. “They don’t listen to the likes of us.”

The man winces, but again doesn’t object to the insult. The Duke would have been raging by now. Though the Duke would never have come down here without a mage to keep them from attempting to break the bars and slaughter him. “I’m - I’m sorry,” the man says weakly.

“Sorry don’t fix _dead_ ,” Zia sneers.

The man flinches hard, and makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat - almost a whimper, too soft for human ears to hear. And then he turns and flees.

Aren sighs and ushers his girls back into their nest. The morning will come soon enough, and the mage with it, and this strange interlude will be as fleeting as a dream.

*

Aleksander sits in front of the fire, wrapped in his dressing gown, shivering despite the warm night and staring sightlessly into the flames. Somehow, even the horror of hearing about this from the king pales compared to actually _seeing_ it: the gaunt, scarred Witcher with hollow cheeks and flaming eyes and a voice like his throat has been filled with gravel, and the four skinny, scarred, furious girls, the only survivors of the tortures Master Gustavus has inflicted on a hundred and twelve children.

So far.

And Aleksander will be expected to let them continue - to let Master Gustavus take girls from Velen’s fields and towns, girls he is _responsible_ for, and strap them to that stone table and do terrible things to them. To house Master Gustavus, and feed him, and ignore the fact that down below his dining hall there are girls dying in agony. To maybe even _watch_ , as he is abruptly sure his grandfather did.

To ignore the fact that every single bit of this horror is a breach of the treaty, of his king’s sworn word, and of _his_ oath to uphold it, and of his oath to protect the people of Velen and the people of all Redania -

Who does he owe his loyalty to? To the king to whom he has just sworn fealty, or to the people of his new estates? To the treaty which is being broken, or to the spirit of unconquered Redania?

It’s Livi who decides him, in the end. Livi who fled his grandfather, fled into the Warlord’s very hands, in breach of every contract her father signed and oath her family swore. Livi who is alive because of it, where so many others like her are dead.

Aleksander can’t save the more-than-a-hundred girls who have died thus far in his grandfather’s dungeon, the unknown number who died in his grandfather’s bed. But he can make sure that number does not grow any larger.

He can’t _speak_ of this to anyone but those who know of it. But maybe he can still write, or why would they have bothered to inflict Konrad on him?

He scrambles for paper and quill, and the words spill out onto the paper without any hesitation. He’d tested the curse earlier, trying to ask the steward about the prisoners, and his throat had closed up like it was clenched in a mailed fist - but his hand does not shake as he puts the whole horrid truth to paper.

And maybe Master Gustavus thought that having Konrad as his privy secretary would keep Aleksander from writing to anyone - but he doesn’t know about the boxes Milena sent her friends, a year and more ago, that send letters back and forth to Kaer Morhen as though through a tiny, permanent portal.

He puts the letter into the spelled box and closes the lid softly, relief and despair warring in his heart. He has betrayed his king - has given unconquered Redania over into the Warlord’s fangs -

Has tossed aside his honor to defend his people.

It seems, he thinks, as he finally settles down to sleep, a fair exchange.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not yet dawn when Jaskier wakes, tucked comfortably between his Wolves, to the sound of frantic rapping on the door to Geralt’s rooms. Geralt rolls out of bed and hurries to answer, not even bothering to find a pair of trousers first. Jaskier sits up and blinks at the dim light spilling in from the hall, admiring the view absently - Geralt has a _lovely_ ass.

Milena is standing in the hallway, as disheveled as Jaskier has ever seen her, her hair a mess and her only clothing a fine shift; Lambert, behind her, is wearing a long shirt and a pair of braies and nothing more, and is snarling under his breath. Milena is clutching a piece of parchment in one hand, and her eyes are _huge_.

“Geralt,” she says, chokes on the next words like they’re stuck in her throat, and shoves the parchment at him. Geralt takes it warily, scans it once - twice - and then very slowly a third time, and then raises his head and _growls_ , a reverberating sound that echoes down the hallway and trails off into an almost-inaudible rumbling that does not cease.

“Well _that_ can’t be good,” Eskel says, and abandons the bed to join their beloved lord in the doorway, just as gloriously nude. Milena doesn’t even appear to notice. “What’s toward, Wolf?” Geralt holds the parchment out wordlessly.

Jaskier wraps himself in a fur and wriggles out of bed to follow, taking another fur for Milena, who has got to be _freezing_. She accepts it with a little start, like she hadn’t even realized she was chilly, and Lambert hastily wraps her up in it and picks her up, cradling her close, so her feet are covered too. She curls into him, hiding her face against his throat and clinging to his shirt.

Eskel makes a noise Jaskier hasn’t heard before, a sort of horrified snarl. “Fucking _hell_!”

Jaskier worms his way between his lovers so he can read whatever’s distressing everyone so much. Thirty seconds later, he’s feeling rather glad he hasn’t eaten anything since supper last night. “Melitele _wept_ ,” he says faintly. “This is...this is much, much worse than I had ever _dreamed_ Vizimir would dare to do.”

“Geralt,” Milena says, uncurling enough to look at him, and Geralt looks up from trying to burn a hole in the parchment with his eyes. “That debt you owe me.”

Geralt nods.

“Please - if you can manage it - don’t kill Aleksander?”

Geralt shakes himself and stops growling. “I won’t. That’s not something you need to beg for, Milena. Vizimir will die, but Aleksander is safe from me.”

“Thank you,” Milena says shakily, and sags back against Lambert.

“Go get some real clothes on,” Eskel says. “Lambert, pass the word to the School Heads for an emergency council meeting and then armor up. We _will_ be going to Redania today...just not as a diplomatic mission.”

“No,” Jaskier says, still feeling ill. “ _Fuck_. This is -”

“Monstrous,” Geralt says, low and furious.

“Yes,” Eskel agrees. “Right. We’ll need the full council, and quickly.”

“Clothing first,” Jaskier says firmly. “You may not invade Redania naked.”

“Yes, lark,” Geralt says, a tiny smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Just as you say.”

*

Jaskier is used to the School Heads being, on the whole, extremely calm and even-tempered; it seems to be one of the criteria for being chosen for the position. And Vesemir, of course, is renowned among the Witchers for his wisdom and good sense.

Very little of that is currently showing. All seven School Heads are snarling, hands gripping the edge of the table or the hilts of knives or swords, and Vesemir has the parchment crumpled in one hand and looks ready to bite someone’s throat out. Merten is actually _weeping_ in horror and rage at the thought of one of his cubs being held captive for so long - twenty years, gods help them all - and for such a foul purpose. Yen and Triss both look a little taken aback, and Ciri is huddled wide-eyed against her father’s side, staring at the council in shock and dismay. Geralt and Eskel are not much calmer than their council.

Jaskier isn’t used to seeing unthinking fury on a Witcher’s face - much less that of ten Witchers at once. But, glancing at Triss and Yen, he thinks maybe this was the same fury which slew the Schools’ mages so long ago. The sort of fury that kills monsters.

But fury doesn’t help with thinking, and thinking’s what they need right now, so he stands up. Ten pairs of yellow eyes fix on him.

“Alright, so I think we’re all agreed that this is sufficient provocation to finish conquering Redania,” he says as calmly as he can. “But we need to do it _intelligently_. If we portal the army to Tretogor and string Vizimir up by his intestines the way we all want to, we run into exactly the same problems we would have yesterday. Right now, we and poor Aleksander are the only people who know about this monstrosity and aren’t actively perpetuating it.”

Artek shakes himself and reaches over to take Treyse by the back of the neck, scruffing him like a kitten. Treyse takes a deep breath and lets go of his dagger hilt, nodding slowly. Vesemir puts the crumpled parchment down and smooths it out, hands shaking a little with suppressed emotion. Merten swipes a sleeve across his eyes and swallows hard. Geralt curls an arm around Ciri’s shoulders and presses a kiss against her hair. Eskel closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in, holds the breath for a long moment, then exhales explosively.

“Alright,” he says. “What do you suggest, catmint? Or you, Yen, Triss - we could use some outside perspective, I think.”

“That’s it exactly,” Jaskier says. “We need to bring people to Velen with the army who _aren’t_ the Wolf’s vassals or allies, and who will bear the truth of the matter back to their own monarchs.” He gestures to the big map on the wall. “Ideally, we’d want someone from Cintra, someone from Aedirn, someone from Skellige, and maybe even someone from Nilfgaard if we could get them. But even just Cintra and Aedirn would probably be enough.”

“Eist,” Geralt says. “For Cintra and Skellige - they’ll both heed him.”

“Whoever Gwidon picks for Aedirn,” Treyse says. “Betting that’ll be his eldest son. Xenon, I think he’s called.”

“And no one from Nilfgaard,” Yen adds. “Emhyr has everything south of the Amell range; he can stay down there and leave the North to the North.”

Geralt nods. “Can you make so many portals today, Yen?”

“I could, but I’ll get Istredd down from Caingorn to help. Better safe than sorry.” Yen stands, tapping her fingers on the table in a quick rattling rhythm. “Pick your messengers for Calanthe and Gwidon. I’ll be ready to send them out in an hour.” Her lips curve in an expression which is only a smile by courtesy. “And then this afternoon we will go and have a talk with Vizimir.”

The Witchers growl agreement, and Jaskier finds himself snarling along.

*

A man doesn’t survive thirteen years of marriage to the Lioness of Cintra without learning to roll with whatever life happens to throw at him. Eist, who has not only survived but thrived in his position as King-Consort, is very very good at adjusting swiftly and efficiently to deal with whatever new and interesting problem has been thrown in his path.

The sudden arrival of four exceedingly angry Witchers in the throne room, ushered in by a white-faced herald, is _definitely_ a surprise, but as soon as it becomes clear that they are not the vanguard of an invasion force - that, indeed, they are all keeping their hands ostentatiously clear of their swords’ hilts, and not making any sudden moves which might startle the abruptly _very_ unhappy guards - Eist realizes that this must be some sort of exceedingly strange diplomatic embassy, and rises from the throne to greet them. He’s really just as grateful Calanthe is currently in Attre, dealing with a nasty little mess among the lords there; she would not be pleased by such a surprise as this.

“My lords - my lady - be welcome to Cintra. What brings you to my queen’s lands in such haste?”

The lead Witcher, a tall redhead with creases around his eyes that suggest he smiles a lot, though he is not smiling now, sketches a shallow bow. “Your highness. We have discovered evidence that Vizimir of Redania is a monster and an oath-breaker, performing horrible experiments in direct contravention of the treaty he signed with the White Wolf. We are sent by the Wolf to request that you or a trusted member of your council, with such guards as you see fit to bring, accompany the Wolf’s forces as we put an end to these experiments, that there may be no doubt in Queen Calanthe’s mind that we moved only after gravest provocation. Whoever goes with us will have our oaths, and through us, the White Wolf’s, that they will come to no harm, and be returned safely here as swiftly as the errand allows.”

Eist takes a moment to digest that properly. It is no surprise that Vizimir of Redania would be such a fool - Eist has only met the man once or twice, but he was not impressed with either his wits or his morals - nor that the White Wolf would discover his folly; really the only surprise is the invitation to witness the Warlord’s forces from _behind_ their lines. But it’s not a bad move, politically; Calanthe would never believe the Warlord’s word alone, if he claimed to have taken the rest of Redania for any reason but simple greed, but she’ll believe Eist if he sees a significant breach of the treaty with his own eyes.

“Grant me a few minutes to arrange matters here,” he says at last, “and I will accompany you. Mousesack, I’ll want to send a message to the queen before I leave; Vissegerd, choose me three good men to guard me.”

“Only three, sire?” Vissegerd asks, casting a nervous glance at the Witchers.

“I trust the word of the Warlord of the North; under his protection I shall come to no harm,” Eist says, loudly enough that the Witchers should hear, and then, much more quietly, “If he wants me dead, we do not have enough guards to prevent it, even if we sent the whole garrison; I would take none at all, but that my queen would be wroth with me. But I don’t think he does. The Warlord doesn’t pull nasty tricks like that.”

“No, that’s true, he just comes in with an unstoppable army and slaughters everyone who resists,” Vissegerd says dryly. “Three men, sire.”

“Ones who won’t be too twitchy,” Eist adds, and turns to Mousesack, who has a bit of parchment in hand and an impatient raven dancing on his shoulder. “Hopefully I’ll be back before Calanthe can make it back to Cintra and start yelling,” he mutters as he scrawls a quick explanation on the parchment.

“Witchers move swiftly when they wish to,” Mousesack observes, and takes the parchment when Eist is done, rolling it up and tucking it carefully into the little pouch attached to the raven’s back. “I would not be surprised if you returned before midnight tonight.”

Vissegerd has chosen three of the older, steadier guards - they look worried but not unduly so - and Mousesack can keep the court from rioting for a few hours, at least. Eist turns to the Witchers again. “I am ready.”

“Thank you for your haste, your highness,” the redheaded Witcher says. He leads the way out of the palace and into the courtyard - past Mousesack’s wards - and tugs a little box out of his pocket. “Yennefer? We’re ready to come back; got King Eist and three guards.”

“One moment,” says a woman’s voice from the box, and a scant few seconds later, another portal opens. Two of the Witchers go through; the redhead gestures for Eist to go next, and Eist squares his shoulders and marches through the portal with his head held high and his guards following.

The first thing he notices about Kaer Morhen is how cold it is, even though it’s late summer. The second thing is the horde of Witchers milling about the enormous hall in which they have emerged. There must be close to three hundred of them, all looking extremely angry.

There’s a young man in elegant silk clothing waiting beside the sorceress who is controlling the portal; he steps forward as the portal closes behind the last two Witchers and bows gracefully. “Your highness, welcome. I am Jaskier of Kaer Morhen.”

Eist examines the Warlord’s Consort with great interest as he returns the greeting. He doesn’t know much about the man who _was_ Viscount Julian Pankratz and is now Jaskier of Kaer Morhen; nobody really does, and spymasters the continent over have despaired of ever getting anyone into the Warlord’s keep. Jaskier is handsome, with very blue eyes and expressive hands, though not the sort of astonishing beauty that some sorcerers choose to be. He’s also obviously utterly at ease among the Witchers, even clapping some of them on the shoulder as he leads Eist up to the head table, where a cluster of Witchers are bent over a map of Redania. One of them straightens as Jaskier and Eist approach: the White Wolf himself, by the pale hair and the way he curls an arm around Jaskier’s waist as soon as he’s close enough. He looks...oddly familiar, though Eist could swear he’s never seen the man before.

“Eist,” he says gruffly. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, your majesty,” Eist says, bowing. “How could I refuse such an interesting invitation?”

“Hm,” the White Wolf says, and holds out a piece of parchment that has clearly been balled up and flattened out again several times. “Here’s why we’re going to kill Vizimir.”

Eist takes the parchment warily, and scans the scrawled words with steadily growing horror. He’s seen a great many dreadful things in his time - a man doesn’t become jarl of Skellige or king of Cintra without doing so - but the letter-writer’s own misery and outrage come through quite strongly, and the scene he sketches, not to mention the number of dead children this whole horrid enterprise apparently involves, are...well, monstrous.

But being a jarl or a king means being extremely suspicious of everything. “How sure are you that this is true?”

“Fairly sure,” one of the other Witchers says, straightening from his perusal of the map. “Firstly because it explains why the hell Vizimir kept giving old lord Velen so much leeway. Secondly, Aren of the Manticores vanished on the Path the year before the Wolf brought us together to kill the king of Kaedwen, and his medallion turned up about a year later, without a body or his swords. Either they’ve really got him, or they managed to get his name before he died.” He shrugs. “Either way, the Wolf will _not_ be going through the portal first.”

The White Wolf actually looks a bit sheepish. “Hm.”

“Once bitten, twice shy,” Jaskier says, which doesn’t really answer any of the questions Eist is carefully _not_ asking about that little exchange. “I don’t think Aleksander would pull a trick like this, but we didn’t think Lytta would, either.” He looks past Eist and smiles. “Ah, there we go, that’ll be Xenon of Aedirn, I think; please excuse me, your highness, while I greet him.”

“Of course,” Eist says, and Jaskier hurries off towards the portal, which has just spit out a lanky, dark-haired young man with a thin silver circlet around his brows, and four well-armed and extremely unhappy looking guards, as well as another quartet of Witchers. Which leaves Eist and his guards surrounded by Witchers - none of whom look particularly threatening to _him_ , if Eist is any judge of such things. He steps aside, tacitly allowing the White Wolf to go back to his planning, and surveys the hall, trying to put faces to the names which Cintra’s spymaster _has_ managed to glean. There are several well-paid agents in Wolvenburg who report back to Cintra, and Eist would be flatly astonished if there weren’t spies from every other realm in the North, plus Nilfgaard and possibly Zerrikania, all clamoring for any scrap of information that happens to come down the mountain. Just the few minutes he’s been here already will be enough to make every spy in Cintra hideously jealous, even if all Eist will be able to tell them is that there’s a great hall in Kaer Morhen, the walls oddly bare of tapestries or trophies, which can hold a great many Witchers in full armor.

The Witcher who stands at the White Wolf’s right, with the truly terrible scars down his face, must be Eskel Amber-Eyed; he, at least, is reasonably well known. The older fellow the others all seem to listen to with great respect is Vesemir the Grey; he visited Cintra a while ago, and made rather a good impression, courteous and even-tempered and wise. The others...Eist shakes his head. He knows a handful of names, the heads of the seven Schools and a few others, but it turns out ‘yellow eyes and facial scars’ isn’t actually a useful way of telling Witchers apart. Eist mentally apologizes to the handful of spies he has thought were shirking their duties; they were clearly doing their best, but scars and marks which would be useful identifiers on anyone else are as commonplace as noses among Witchers, it seems.

Jaskier leads Xenon of Aedirn over to greet the White Wolf, and the Aedirnian lad comports himself quite well, though Eist can see his hands shaking a little. The White Wolf is - kind, actually, is the word that comes to mind, or perhaps gentle. He doesn’t growl at the young prince, doesn’t loom over him, lets Jaskier do most of the talking.

Xenon still looks rather relieved to be sent to stand over by Eist, and so do the lad’s guards. Eist offers a shallow bow; Xenon returns a rather deeper one.

“Your highness, it’s an honor,” he says.

“Likewise, your highness,” Eist replies. “Had you visited Kaer Morhen before?”

“Never,” Xenon admits. “I’ve only seen Witchers a few times - they don’t come to Father’s court much, so long as we stay on our side of the river. Gods, there are a lot of them, aren’t there?”

Eist nods, but for all the bustle and crowding, he’s starting to wonder if this is all the Witchers there _are_. A few hundred - a few hundred of the deadliest warriors ever dreamed of, yes, but only a few hundred.

Not that _Cintra_ plans to go to war with the White Wolf. Calanthe is not a fool. But if this is all the Warlord has, then the inevitable conflict with Nilfgaard will be...interesting.

On the other hand, this could easily be only a fraction of the Warlord’s strength, and enough of the Witchers look young - or at least have relatively few scars - that perhaps the Warlord is quite sensibly making sure to create more of his near-unstoppable warriors.

The White Wolf glances at his right hand warrior, and Eskel Amber-Eyed gives a piercing whistle. Silence falls so suddenly it’s jarring, and every eye turns to the White Wolf and his companions.

Eskel Amber-Eyed speaks first. “This morning, we were sent a message claiming that Vizimir of Redania and his uncle, the old duke of Velen, have been keeping a Witcher captive, and using his blood to attempt to mutate girl-children into Witchers. If true, this is a breach of the treaty and a clear provocation of the Wolf.” His lips curve in a vicious snarl. “If it is true, Vizimir dies today.”

The White Wolf nods. “Velen first,” he says. “Old Duke Velen’s dead. The _new_ duke is not to be harmed. If the message is true, we go on to Tretogor.” He growls, low and fierce and deeply inhuman. “And Vizimir dies.”

The snarl of feral rage which rises from the Witchers’ throats is genuinely terrifying. Eist takes a step back; Xenon actually backs up far enough to thump against the wall, eyes wide with fear.

The White Wolf gestures towards them, and silence falls again like the sound has been sliced off with a sword. “Eist Tuirseach. Xenon of Aedirn. Protect them. They’re to see whatever we find in Velen.”

“White Wolf,” the Witchers chorus, and Eist shudders a little at the howling fury in the words.

The White Wolf nods acknowledgement and turns to the mages at the end of the hall. “Yen, Istredd. Ready?”

“Ready,” the woman - Yennefer of Vengerberg, this must be - says curtly. Five _enormous_ Witchers come forward, each of them in heavy armor and bearing a shield that looks too massive for a normal man to even begin to lift; they heft them with ease. The two mages raise their hands, and a portal forms between them; the five Witchers trot through it, shields held high, and behind them a double handful of leaner, lither Witchers with swords and daggers ready in their hands, and then another double handful of Witchers bearing crossbows. Honestly, it all seems a bit excessive - twenty-five Witchers would be a match for nearly anything - but then Eist recalls that odd exchange from earlier, and begins to wonder about how, precisely, Henselt of Temeria managed to nearly assassinate the White Wolf, and whether it involved a portal taken too rashly into the unknown.

There’s a brief pause, and then one of the second group comes back through.

“Not a trap,” he calls, neatly confirming Eist’s suspicions, and the White Wolf growls and heads for the portal himself, drawing one of his swords as he goes, and two or three dozen Witchers close in around him.

Eskel Amber-Eyed turns to Eist and Xenon and their guards. “If you’ll come with me?” he says, the courteous words an odd contrast to the feral snarls of the other Witchers.

Eist nods and beckons Xenon, who falls in beside him like he thinks Eist might be able to protect him if the Witchers decide to do them harm. A good dozen Witchers take up positions around them and their guards, and Eist realizes that they’re _also_ guards - that the White Wolf’s order to protect him and Xenon was taken quite seriously. Interesting.

The other side of the portal is the front courtyard of an enormous sprawling mansion-keep which Eist has never seen before. There are Witchers everywhere; an assortment of human guards in Redanian uniforms are being tied up off to one side, and a terrified-looking man in livery is pinned to the wall near the big doors by one of the enormous shield-bearing Witchers, who has a hand on his throat and is snarling in his face. The doors are smashed open.

There’s a shout, and the Witchers around Eist and Xenon suddenly close in. Eist has a moment of shocked terror - have they decided to kill him after all? _Why?_ \- and then realizes they’re shielding him and Xenon and their guards from the commotion right inside the doors. He can’t see anything, but there’s a _spectacularly_ loud explosion, and then a scream that’s cut off as if by a knife.

A Witcher emerges from inside the doorway and tosses something down the steps; it rolls to a halt at the White Wolf’s feet, and Eist, peering between overprotective Witchers, can see it’s a severed head, still bleeding.

“Fucker put Gerring through a wall with a spell, so I’m guessing he’s not the duke,” the Witcher calls. A voice behind him snarls, “Fuck off, I’m _fine_ ,” and another Witcher emerges from the doorway covered in stone dust and limping a little, but clearly not badly injured. Xenon gives Eist an incredulous look.

“He went through a _wall_ and he’s fine?” the lad hisses.

Eskel Amber-Eyed turns enough to give Xenon a sharp grin. “Takes more than a wall to stop a Witcher.”

“Found him!” someone calls, and yet another Witcher emerges escorting a short, stocky, rather astonished-looking young man, who stumbles down the stairs and falls on his knees at the White Wolf’s feet, only narrowly missing the severed head. He stares down at it for a moment in obvious shock that turns just as obviously into frank relief.

“Aleksander?” the White Wolf growls.

“Yes, my lord,” the lad quavers, looking up and shuddering in fear. “I am Aleksander of Velen. I - I didn’t expect you to move so _fast_.”

“You’ve one of mine here, if you did not lie,” the White Wolf rumbles.

Aleksander swallows hard and glances at the head again. “F-five, my lord,” he says shakily, and his shoulders sag with the release of long-held tension. Eist frowns internally. A mage’s head, and a man so relieved to see it - what did the mage do to this boy? And good on him for managing to alert the Warlord in spite of it, whatever it may have been. When he speaks again, his voice is firmer. “Five of yours, for the girls are Witchers too.”

The White Wolf inclines his head, just a little. “Five, then,” he says, and beckons Eist and Xenon and Eskel Amber-Eyed. “Show us where.”


	4. Chapter 4

The door to the dungeon crashes open, and Aren wrenches at the straps holding him to the stone table - quite fruitlessly; they’re reinforced with chains, and he doesn’t have the leverage to really put his weight behind the gesture. He can’t even see what’s happening, gods damn this fucking blindfold, and if the fucking mage is angry enough to slam it open like that, he’s angry enough to take it out on one of the girls, and Aren is _gagged_ , he can’t even _say_ anything -

But instead of the mage’s usual slimy tones, what he hears is Ada gasping, “Oh!” - and then a horrible gurgling noise as the mage who’s been prodding at Aren’s arm - the older-looking one, the note-taker - is knocked back and away, falling to the floor with a sodden thump.

“Fucking hell,” someone says - a voice Aren doesn’t recognize. “Get in here, you two.”

A small commotion, and then another unfamiliar voice - a young man - says, “Holy Mother Melitele preserve us.”

A third voice, an older man. “Freya _wept_.”

“Seen enough?” Aren’s head is starting to spin - he has no idea who _any_ of these people are, and he can’t see anything but the dark inside of the blindfold, and none of the girls are saying _anything_. He wrenches at the straps again, with just as little effect.

“Aye, your majesty, we have seen enough. It is as you said it would be,” the older man says solemnly. “I will so inform my queen.”

“And I my father,” the young man adds.

“Good,” says the last voice - deep and gravelly and angry. “Merten. He is your cub.”

“Yes, he is,” says a voice Aren thought he would never hear again, and then soft footsteps approach, and someone touches his arm, gentle as the mage never is. “Hold still, cub, we’ll have you out of this in a moment. Theo! Come and help.”

Aren holds still, wondering wildly if he’s finally lost his mind. Fingers press against his wrist, sliding under the cuff, and then there’s a sharp grunt of effort and the strap breaks with a sharp _snap_. Someone else does the same on the other side, and they both move down to break the straps on his legs, and then work together to break the strap across his chest, leaving only the collar about his throat. That one is too tight for them to slide their fingers under it. Aren shivers with the effort of remaining still, of not clawing at the collar.

“You cut, I’ll pull,” the voice that can’t _really_ be Master Merten says gruffly. Someone hooks their fingers into the links of the chain reinforcing the leather strap of the collar and _hauls_ ; there’s a creak of iron and then a _spang_ as the iron gives way. Someone else places a very gentle hand on Aren’s throat, and a knife’s blade slides between his skin and the leather, parting the thick leather like butter.

Someone breaks the gag’s fastenings and lifts it from his mouth, and someone else cuts the blindfold and lets it fall away, and Aren sits up, blinking hard and staring around as his eyes re-adjust to the light.

The room is full of Witchers - a dozen of them at least. And beside the stone table, impossible and baffling, stands Master Merten, looking almost exactly as he did when Aren set out on the Path.

“Master?” he rasps.

“Aren, cub,” Master Merten says, and throws his arms around Aren in an utterly astonishing embrace. Aren sits there, baffled, for a second, and then warily lifts his arms to return the hug. It’s surprisingly nice.

“Aren,” Maja says quietly after a long moment. Aren pulls away from Master Merten and struggles off the table, legs worryingly shaky. Master Merten ducks under his arm, slinging it across his own shoulders, and helps him across the room to the cage, the other Witchers clearing out of the way. They have to step over the corpse of the junior mage, who has a dagger all the way through his throat; Aren would kick the corpse, but he thinks he might fall over if he tries. Master Merten has no such compunctions; he boots the corpse out of the way without breaking stride.

“Aren, what’s going on?” Maja asks.

“Not sure,” Aren rasps. “Can you see them too?”

“They’re fucking real,” Zia says. She’s got Ada and Elena behind her, tucked into a corner. Good girl. “Who are they?”

“I am Merten, Head of the Manticore School,” Master Merten says, and nods to the closest other Witcher - a Bear by the medallion, and Aren is _so_ confused. “Get that lock off, will you?”

“Aye,” the Bear says, and closes a hand around the padlock and _twists_. The thick iron breaks like straw. The door to the cage creaks open.

There’s a very brief pause, and then all four girls come streaking out to cluster around Aren, Maja fitting herself under his other arm to help hold him up, Zia herding Elena and Ada close to him and putting herself between them and the Witchers, glaring up at the Bear fiercely. To Aren’s shock, the Bear chuckles and reaches out to pat her head, not seeming fazed when she snarls and snaps like a feral thing.

“Fierce little cubs,” he says approvingly to Aren.

Aren nods, so confused he can’t think of anything to say.

“If you please, sir,” Elena says to Master Merten, all courtesy and graciousness, “what is going on?”

Master Merten smiles down at her. “We’re getting you out of here, cub - all of you. And then we’re going to go kill the king of Redania for ordering this.”

“But who _are_ you, please, sir?” Elena presses.

“We’re the army of the White Wolf,” Master Merten says gently, and turns Aren - and perforce the girls clinging to him - until they can see the man standing in the doorway. The _Witcher_ in the doorway. He’s not so big as the Bear, but he’s big enough, and his hair is white as snow, his eyes a piercing gold that seems to see right through Aren.

“I am Geralt,” he says quietly. His is the deep voice, the one the others called ‘your majesty.’ “Called the White Wolf.”

“Oh,” Maja breathes. “You’re the _Warlord_.”

The White Wolf nods.

“You’re going to kill that shite-spattered whoreson?” Zia asks. “Vizimir the Weak?”

The White Wolf gives her a very thin smile. “I will. Would you like his head?”

“We’ve got the other mage’s,” one of the other Witchers - a burly Wolf with impressive scars - puts in, and holds out what is unmistakably the severed head of the mage who has been their chief tormentor for so long. Zia’s eyes light up and she darts forward to snatch it up, then whirls to slam it down against the edge of the table. The head shatters in a spray of blood and brains. Zia stands there panting, a hank of hair still clutched in her hand.

“ _Fierce_ little cub,” the Bear who broke the lock says, grinning broadly. “Good arm, girl.”

Zia looks up at him and snarls. “He should’ve died _slow_.”

Aren sighs. “Witchers don’t torture,” he reminds her gently.

Zia scowls and drops the last fragment of the mage’s hair on the other mage’s corpse, stomping over to his side again. “Fucking simpering noodledicks,” she grumbles. “Let’s get the fuck out of here already. Can we burn this stinking place down?”

There’s a muffled snort of laughter from the doorway, and Aren looks up to find the young man who visited them the night before is standing beside the White Wolf. “Frankly, I’d be just as glad,” he says. “It’s an eyesore full of horrid memories. Let me just get all the servants out first.”

“Who _are_ you?” Elena asks.

The young man bows to her. “Aleksander, currently duke of Velen - though I have no idea how long that state will continue. Whoever ends up as the next king of Redania may well have me executed for treason, or at least banished.”

“Not executed,” the big, scarred Wolf says. “And if you’re banished, I expect we can find a place for you in Kaer Morhen.”

“Aye,” one of the other Witchers - a Cat by the medallion - says, slinging an arm around Aleksander’s shoulders. “You’ve courage _and_ a ridiculously overpowerful sense of honor; you’ll fit right in with the Wolves.”

The scarred Wolf sighs and rolls his eyes. “Come along, all of you, let’s get out of this charnel house. Aleksander, you had better go and tell your servants to get out, too; I’m going to let this young firebrand help me turn this house into a pile of ash.”

“Give me half an hour,” Aleksander says, and whirls to hurry away.

“Come along, cubs,” Master Merten says gently, and steers Aren and the girls towards the doorway. The other Witchers fall in around them like an honor guard.

It takes a lot more than half an hour; more like an hour and a half, really, to clear all the servants and their belongings out to the much smaller guest house off on the other side of a decorative lake, and let Aleksander and the Witchers ransack the place; for what, Aren can’t bring himself to care. But it’s not so very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, before Aren finds himself sitting on an upturned barrel a good few hundred paces from the mansion which has been his prison for so long, and watching the big, scarred Wolf show Zia how to cast Igni properly. _His_ Igni is _terrifyingly_ strong, more like a dragon’s fire than the simple burst of flame that is all Aren has ever been able to produce. The mansion’s roof catches first, and then something in the interior, and then all of a sudden the whole place is a column of fire, spewing black smoke up into the sky.

Maja says softly, “It’s really over. We’re really _out_.”

“You are,” the White Wolf says, nodding solemnly to her. “Aren. Do you wish to come to Tretogor first, or to go to Kaer Morhen now?”

“What’s Kaer Morhen, sir?” Ada whispers.

“Kaer Morhen is the home of the Witchers,” the White Wolf tells her gently. “Your home, now.”

Aren swallows. “Let us see this ended.”

The White Wolf nods. “Then you shall come with us to Tretogor. Esra, stay with them and guard them well.”

The Bear who seems so charmed by Zia nods. “Gladly, Wolf.” He beckons to a few more Witchers who have been hovering off to the side a little ways; three of them, all from different Schools, which is _still_ so baffling Aren doesn’t know how to deal with it except by not thinking about it. One of them has dust in his hair and all over his armor. “My troop,” he says to Aren and the girls. “Gerring of the Vipers, Kyril of the Griffins, Byrtel of the Cranes.” He must see Aren’s bafflement, because he adds, “We work in groups these days. Different strengths, and all.”

Aren nods weakly. Witchers working in groups? Different Schools working together? The girls have told him tales of the Warlord, and he knows a lot has changed while he was held captive, but this is so startling as to be nearly incomprehensible.

The big Wolf comes trotting back with Zia beside him. “Quick learner, your little firebrand,” he tells Aren approvingly. Esra of the Bears chuckles and attempts to tousle Zia’s hair again, and seems even more delighted when she ducks out of the way and bares her teeth at him.

“Alright, cub, I’ll not touch you,” he says, and Zia crosses her arms and glares.

“Better not, or I’ll bite you,” she warns.

“ _Fierce_ cub,” Esra says, and cocks his head thoughtfully. “Fierce little cubs should have fangs,” he says after a long moment, while Aren wonders if he’s going to have to put himself between one of their saviors and one of his pride. “Here.” He plucks a dagger from his belt - a little thing, to a Bear, but nearly as long as Zia’s forearm - and holds it out, hilt-first.

Zia takes it warily, holding it a little awkwardly at first. Esra nods and steps back. Aren beckons Zia over, and adjusts her grip gently, until the dagger might as well be an extension of her arm. “Lunges,” he says, and she steps a little ways away and drops into the first striking position he ever taught her, dagger gleaming in her hand. Esra grins and claps Aren - gently, for a wonder - on the shoulder.

The White Wolf steps out in front of the little army of Witchers, and all eyes turn to him. “To Tretogor,” he says. “Guard Eist, Xenon, Aren, and the girls well.”

“White Wolf!” chorus the Witchers, and Aren rocks back a little, astonished by the sound. The girls huddle closer to him, wide-eyed and wondering. The White Wolf nods to the big scarred Wolf, who draws a little box out of his pocket and speaks into it; moments later, a small portal appears, disgorging a beautiful woman in an improbably fancy black dress who raises her hands and calls up a much larger portal, wide enough for half a dozen Witchers to cross abreast. Five big Witchers raise enormous shields and go trotting through.

Aren stands, gathering his girls close. Time to see this finished - time to have the vengeance twenty years have earned.

*

Eist is impressed despite himself by the speed with which the Witchers can move when they wish to. From what he’s managed to gather, they found out about that horror of a dungeon this morning; it’s now barely past luncheon, and he’s standing in the great hall of the palace in Tretogor, watching King Vizimir grovel before the White Wolf and beg for his miserable life, while the freed prisoners from Velen look on with fierce, furious snarls.

There have been casualties among the guards who tried to keep the Witchers from getting into the palace from the great courtyard, and even a few of the braver or more foolish noblemen of Redania who dared fling themselves between the Witchers and their king, but not many; this is as close as Eist has ever seen to a bloodless coup. Well, bloodless besides Vizimir, and probably his sons and grandsons, if the White Wolf is wise, and by this point, Eist isn’t sure he could find anyone in the North who would argue that the Warlord is any sort of fool.

“For breach of treaty, and for the torture of one of _mine_ , the penalty is death,” the White Wolf growls at last. “King Eist. Prince Xenon. Will you speak against this?”

Eist and Xenon glance at each other, and Eist steps forward. “In the name of Queen Calanthe of Cintra, in whose name I have borne witness to this day’s revelations, I say that it is clear that Vizimir of Redania has wilfully and maliciously broken the treaty between Redania and the Warlord of the North, in such a way that any king would find it an intolerable offense. So say I, Eist Tuirseach, King of Cintra and onetime jarl of Skellige.”

Xenon steps up beside him, looking stern and solemn. “In the name of King Gwidon of Aedirn, I affirm King Eist’s words; so say I, Xenon, Crown Prince of Aedirn.”

The White Wolf inclines his head to both of them briefly, and looks down at Vizimir again for a long, cold moment. And then he turns to the gaunt, horribly scarred Witcher from Velen, and holds out his sword. “This death is yours by right.”

The Witcher - Aren - steps forward, disentangling himself gently from the four girls clinging to him, and takes the sword almost hesitantly. “Silver?” he rasps, his voice a horrid broken sound.

“Silver for monsters,” the White Wolf replies gently.

Aren nods and raises the sword; he may be gaunt, but he has some remnant of a Witcher’s strength yet, for it only takes a single blow to remove Vizimir’s head. One of the girls - the fierce, foulmouthed one with particolored gold-and-grey eyes - cheers.

Eist doesn’t flinch; he’s seen far worse than this swift execution. And unlike the conquest of Temeria, Redania falling entirely under the Wolf’s control doesn’t really affect Cintra at all. Calanthe won’t be _pleased_ , but she won’t be terribly unhappy, either. And Cintra has no intention, so far as Eist knows, of breaking _their_ treaty with the Wolf. Mathen of Cidaris will probably throw a fit, but he’s a fool and no one truly heeds him. Tarrand of Kerack, Ervyll of Verden, and Venzlav of Brugge will just be grateful the Wolf isn’t currently looking their way. Meve of Lyria will probably be interested to hear about this, but mostly unconcerned; she’s safe until and unless Gwidon does something foolish. And as for Nilfgaard, who cares? Let Emhyr squirm.

The sorceress Yennefer comes over to him, picking her way around the body of the dead king, as old Vesemir the Grey begins commanding the various nobles of the court to come forward and swear that they had no knowledge of their king’s idiocy.

“It’s going to be hours of this,” Yennefer says, gesturing behind her at the commotion. “If you don’t wish to stay for it, I’ll send you two and your guards home to explain all this to Calanthe and Gwidon.”

“Thank you,” Eist says, bowing a little. “That would be kind of you.”

Not ten minutes later, he and his guards are back in the courtyard of the palace in Cintra.

It’s not even midafternoon.

Eist adds a little more emphasis to his longstanding mental note to never, _ever_ break the treaty with the Warlord of the North, and starts to plan how, precisely, he is going to explain the day’s adventure to Calanthe.

*

Zia isn’t sure she wants to go to Kaer Morhen, wherever the fuck _that_ is, but it’s probably better than the dungeon in the Duke’s house, and Aren and the rest of the pride are going, so she steps through the portal without complaining, following the crowd of Witchers - about half of the ones who came to rescue them, she thinks, or maybe a little more than half.

Kaer Morhen is _big_ , is what it is. Big and fucking _cold_ \- she doesn’t feel the cold so badly since what Aren calls the False Trials, but it’s still chilly, especially as she’s got nothing but a chemise on, with her new dagger tucked through the bit of scrap leather tied about her waist. The Duke and his mage didn’t care to give their captives much in the way of clothes.

They’re in a big, echo-y hall, and all the Witchers are trotting off through the many doors lining the walls, except Esra and his troop and Eskel. Zia isn’t sure how she feels about any of the Witchers, really, except that the White Wolf let Aren kill King Vizimir so she thinks _he’s_ alright, and Eskel let her have the fucking hell-spawn mage’s head _and_ taught her to cast fire spells and let her help burn down the Duke’s fucking hideous awful mansion, so he’s probably alright too. And Esra tried to tousle her hair, but he also gave her a dagger - which she is _never_ letting go - so maybe he’s alright, too.

Eskel goes over to the steps leading up to a big stone throne, and the man who’s been sitting on the steps plucking at a lute stands up, handing the lute to a girl about Elena’s age with hair so pale it’s almost white, and throws his arms around Eskel and kisses him. Eskel kisses back for a minute, and then wraps an arm around the man’s waist and beckons the girl and leads them both over towards Aren and the pride.

“Catmint, cub, this is Aren of the Manticores, and his pride, Maja, Zia, Elena, and Ada. Aren, girls, these are Jaskier, Geralt’s consort, and Ciri, Geralt’s daughter.”

“If he’s Geralt’s consort what the fuck’s he doing kissing you,” Zia demands, glowering up at both of them. She saw enough of _that_ sort of thing on the streets, people fucking around behind their sweethearts’ back, and it always went shit-shaped in the end.

To her surprise, Eskel smiles, and Jaskier chuckles. “Good question,” he says to her, sounding almost approving. “Geralt and Eskel and I are all lovers, it’s just that Eskel is Geralt’s right hand, so making him a consort, too, would be a bit of a decrease in rank.”

“Huh,” Zia says. That’s more sensible than the sort of fucking messes that she’s seen happen, anyhow. Maybe this Kaer Morhen place won’t be a _complete_ shitshow.

“It’s an honor to meet you, my lord, your highness,” Elena says. Jaskier and Ciri both shake their heads.

“Nobody uses titles here, really, except Papa sometimes,” Ciri says, smiling cheerfully at Elena. “I’m just Ciri. I’m _dreadfully_ sorry you were all hurt so badly, and I wish we’d known sooner so Papa could have _stopped_ it sooner. But I’m sort of glad you’re here.”

“Why?” Zia asks. Nobles paying attention to gutter brats like her never ends well.

“Well, I’m the only girl in training,” Ciri explains. “It will be nice to have some company.”

The princess trains with the Witchers? What the fuck?

“I suspect you won’t be joining the trainees until you’ve got a little more meat on your bones, and any healing you need,” Jaskier says. “For now, we’ve set aside rooms for your pride on the Manticore hall, if that will suit you. Would you prefer to head there, or eat something, or bathe, or maybe see Triss about your injuries?”

Zia wants a bath quite badly - the mage’s servants would occasionally sluice them down with buckets of cold water, but that hasn’t happened recently, and they all reek - but Aren is starting to shake, the way he does when everything is becoming just _too much_ , so Zia doesn’t object when Maja says, quietly but firmly, “We’d like to see our rooms, please.”

“Right this way,” Jaskier says at once.

Kaer Morhen continues to be both enormous and cold, but Zia knew the streets of Tretogor by heart before she was eight; she can learn this maze, given a few weeks and the freedom to explore. And the rooms they’re led to -

Zia stares around in wonder. She’s _never_ seen rooms like this. There’s a front room with a thick carpet on the floor and a fireplace - lit even now in the middle of summer - taking up most of one wall, and a big wooden chair that looks perfect for Aren, and two chests heaped with cushions. And then there’s the bedroom, which has a positively enormous bed in it, wide enough for all five of them to curl up together. And there are _windows_ , shutters standing open now so Zia can see the mountains rising up into the cloudless sky. These are rooms for _nobles_ , not for gutter brats. Which means they’ve probably displaced someone, who is going to be pissy about it. Fuck.

“Whose rooms were these?” Elena asks in a tiny voice.

“They were empty,” Jaskier says. “Technically, they were meant for Merten, I think, but he prefers to room with Leocadie, so they’ve never been used.”

“Still together,” Aren rasps, sounding fond.

“Still together,” Jaskier agrees. “And Leocadie’s rooms are closer to the privies, so they decided they liked those better. Privies are down the hall, incidentally, and if you take the stairs all the way down you’ll end up at the hot springs. Would you like me to have someone bring you some food? And would you be willing to have Triss make sure you’re in as good health as can be expected, given everything?”

“Who’s Triss?” Zia demands, as Maja and Ada coax Aren into the big wooden chair; he makes a sort of gasping sound when he sits down, which means the leg-bone the mage shattered and put back together years ago is paining him again.

“Triss is our chief healer. She _is_ a sorceress, and I’m sure you’ve had your fill of mages, but -”

Zia bristles. “ _No mages_.”

“She won’t touch you without your say-so,” Jaskier says. Zia snarls.

“She fixed the trials,” Esra says quietly from the doorway - no one has come in except Jaskier, actually, which is sort of nice. Makes these rooms feel a little more like their pride’s territory.

“What?” Aren says.

“She fixed ‘em. Found a way to test the boys, so none of ‘em die of the Grasses.”

Aren makes a sound like he’s been stabbed. Jaskier hums and turns, shooing the Witchers away from the doorway. “I think that may be enough revelations for today. I’ll have a tray of food brought up to you, and no one will bother you until at least suppertime,” he says firmly. “You just get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Elena says politely.

Jaskier nods and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him, and Zia goes over to join her pride, all of them crowding around Aren, trying to press close enough to give comfort. Zia’s not sure what about Esra’s words hurt Aren so, but he smells like misery even more than he usually does.

“We’re safe, right?” Maja asks softly. “I didn’t smell any lies -”

“Safe.” Aren nods.

“Then why d’you smell like a sad cesspit?” Zia grumbles.

Aren chuckles a little. “Grieving,” he rasps. “For brothers. For the other girls.” He shakes his head a bit and pushes himself up out of the chair, limping over to the window. The girls follow, crowding close around him and staring out at the astonishing scenery: looming mountains, green meadows, a wheeling hawk above the trees. Slowly, Aren’s scent changes from misery to something Zia’s never really smelled on him before: happiness, faint and tentative but _real_. “Got out,” he says at last.

Zia is struck by a sudden terror: _did_ they? Or is this just a larger prison? She darts over to the door and yanks at the handle, not daring to hope it will actually open - but it _does_ , and she finds herself facing a boy a few years older than she is, with slitted yellow eyes, holding a heavy tray of food and drink.

“Hey!” he says, stepping back a little and then recovering with a grin. “Good timing. Want me to bring this in?”

“I’ve got it,” Zia says, and takes it - it _is_ heavy, enough that she knows she could not have carried it easily before her False Trials. There’s a tureen of some sort of soup, and a platter of sliced venison, and two loaves of bread with a little pot of butter, and a pitcher of ale, and a covered bowl of what smells like _berries_ , and -

It’s more food than Zia has _ever_ seen in one place before, and it all smells _good_. She stands there frozen for a moment, astonished by the bounty.

“Thank you,” Maja says to the boy, tugging Zia back out of the doorway and pushing her gently towards one of the chests, which Ada is clearing the cushions off of.

“My pleasure,” the boy says as Maja closes the door.

Zia puts the tray down on the chest, and her pride descends upon the food, glorying in the taste of fresh bread and ripe berries and savory venison - in the astonishing luxury of having _enough_ , of eating to satiation for the first time in _years_.

They’ve about finished the food when there’s another knock on the door, and Zia opens it, hand on the hilt of her knife, to find the boy is back, this time with two helpers, carrying an enormous basin of steaming water between them. “Jaskier said you might want to bathe,” the first boy says. “Want us to bring this in?”

“We’ve got it,” Zia says. She doesn’t want anyone else in their territory. The boys all shrug and put the basin down and step back, and Maja and Elena come out to help Zia drag it into their rooms, Ada taking the pile of toweling one of the boys holds out and closing the door firmly once they’re in.

 _Hot_ water to bathe in - Zia can’t remember the last hot bath she’s had. Certainly she didn’t have that luxury on the streets, not unless she’d somehow gotten her hands on enough coin for a bathhouse. But this water is hot enough that it’s nearly uncomfortable when she dips a finger in.

Maja helps Aren over to the basin, and he makes a noise of utter shock as he sinks into it. “Leg,” he says when they all cluster close in worry. “Feels good.”

They let him soak, and sponge themselves off, all of them marveling at the warmth of it, and then Maja and Zia help Aren out - he’s almost asleep, but he _doesn’t smell like pain_ , which is so fucking astonishing Zia thinks she might have to thank Consort Jaskier for it - and towel him roughly dry and get him over to the bed. Ada and Elena join them, still a little damp, piling in on either side of Aren and curling up around him. The bed is _absurdly_ soft, and smells faintly like geese; it’s squishier than any pallet Zia’s ever slept on before, almost _too_ soft for comfort. Aren falls asleep with Maja petting his hair and Ada and Elena dozing on his stomach. Zia isn’t tired, but that’s all to the good; she and Maja can be on watch, and let Aren get some real rest.

“Do you think this is real?” Maja whispers, softly enough not to disturb their sleeping pridemates.

Zia frowns. “Don’t know,” she says at last, but she looks at the unlocked door and the open window, the empty tray that held food enough for five, remembers the feeling of smashing the mage’s fucking head and lighting the horrible mansion on fire and watching Aren cut the king’s head right off, and adds, slowly, “But it might be.”

Maja nods. “Feels like a dream,” she says after a moment.

Zia nods. It does. This whole day feels like a really fucking weird dream. But if it is - well, any dream that involves vengeance and good food and getting the fuck out of the cage is a dream she doesn’t care to wake from.

And who knows. Maybe it is real.


	5. Chapter 5

Aleksander watches his little brother kneel before the new king - Dawid, of all people, who was the first person in any of the cadet branches of Vizimir’s line to be able to actually swear to the Warlord without lying or pissing himself - with an odd mix of pride, relief, and sorrow. Mikolaj will make a very good duke for Velen, calm and even-tempered and kind-hearted as he is, and without the stain of high treason always tainting his reputation. And Patryk will make a good, trustworthy companion for him - though it took Aleksander some arguing to convince his manservant that following Aleksander into whatever fate might hold for him now was not his duty, and Aleksander would be far happier to know Patryk was safe and helping keep Mikolaj safe, too.

“So,” says the Cat Witcher standing beside Aleksander, “guess we’re taking you back to Kaer Morhen with us.”

“If the Warlord will allow it,” Aleksander says. He’s not officially banished from Redania - it’s a little awkward to banish someone from just one of the Wolf’s lands - but it would probably be a very good idea for him to remove himself from the country for a while. Several decades, perhaps.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll fucking knock some sense into him myself,” Lambert grumbles from Aleksander’s other side. “Milena’d be pissed if we left you hanging out to dry.”

“Can’t disappoint our Kitten,” the Cat Witcher agrees.

Lambert nods. “Oi, Geralt, we taking the lad back with us?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the Warlord looks over from where he’s been consulting with Vesemir the Grey and nods, sharply, once.

Aleksander boggles. He can’t imagine addressing any king so cavalierly, much less the _Warlord of the North_ \- but then, Lambert is high in the Warlord’s esteem, according to Milena’s letters. Maybe such casual disrespect is a privilege of his rank.

“Great,” Lambert says, and the Cat Witcher throws an arm around Aleksander’s shoulder and steers him towards the sorceress standing off to the side. A good half of the remaining Witchers are lining up to return to Kaer Morhen, leaving only a couple of dozen who appear to be planning to stay in Tretogor and help Dawid get everything under control; Lambert and the Cat Witcher and Aleksander join the line.

“I didn’t catch your name, my lord,” Aleksander says to the Cat Witcher, who still hasn’t let go of him. It’s a friendly embrace, he thinks. He hopes. It’s certainly very warm - Witchers must run warmer than humans - and rather distracting, what with the Cat Witcher being frankly one of the most attractive people Aleksander has ever seen. He looks like the rakishly handsome antagonist in a romance play, the one who very nearly wins the girl before the hero can perform some feat of great daring and win her heart. It’s a little distressing, actually, because Aleksander is so exhausted and befuddled from the day’s events that he’s a little worried he might lose control over his tongue and blurt out something inappropriate about how handsome the Cat Witcher is. He doesn’t want to offend _any_ of the Witchers, much less one who seems to be at least a little well disposed towards him.

“Aiden,” says the Cat Witcher. “And knock it off with the ‘my lords’. What’s an ex-duke’s rank anyhow, Lam?”

“How should I know?” Lambert says. “Ask Milena.”

“Usually,” Aleksander says, “a duke who’s been deposed for high treason is called a corpse, so how to address him simply doesn’t arise.”

Lambert and Aiden both snort with laughter, and then Aiden says, “Oh hey! There’s an idea!”

“...Oh?” Aleksander asks warily.

“You know all that courtly shit,” Aiden says, tugging Aleksander forward as the line abruptly starts to move. The Witchers break into an easy trot; Aleksander finds himself nearly dragged along. Thankfully it isn’t very far before they’re through the portal and emerging into a vast hall; the other Witchers split off in many directions, streaming out of the doors along the walls, but Aiden and Lambert head for the dais at the head of the hall, where Consort Jaskier and Eskel Amber-Eyed and Milena are waiting. Consort Jaskier is sitting in Eskel Amber-Eyed’s lap.

That’s...

Aleksander...can’t quite deal with thinking about that right now; he’s got too many other things to worry about. Like, for instance, the way Milena rises and stretches out her hands in welcome, and Lambert picks her up and kisses her enthusiastically. Milena winds a leg around his waist and returns the kiss just as thoroughly. Aleksander blushes hotly. No one in Tretogor would ever behave like that in _public_. It’s hard to believe that proper, dainty Milena would do such a thing, even though it’s happening right in front of him.

“Darling dreadful man,” Milena says with immense affection as Lambert puts her down.

“That’s me,” Lambert agrees, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “Brought you someone.”

Aiden pushes Aleksander forward, hands on Aleksander’s shoulders, and Aleksander tries not to feel rather like a hunting trophy, brought home by the hounds to be laid triumphantly at the hunter’s feet. Milena laughs and comes forward to embrace him much more decorously than she did Lambert.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Sasha. And if no one has said it yet - thank you. I know this has cost you a great deal, and I am grateful beyond words that you chose as you did.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Aleksander says awkwardly. Milena looks _good_ , and it’s not just the beautiful dress or the elaborately braided crown of her hair; she looks happy, and healthy, and _comfortable_ , here in this enormous stone hall, surrounded by Witchers.

“And not one noble fucker in a hundred woulda done it,” Lambert says, winding an arm around Milena’s waist. “So yeah. Thank you.”

“From all of us,” Aiden agrees, tossing his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders again. “There’s not a Witcher in Kaer Morhen who doesn’t owe you - the Manticores most of all. Don’t take any drinks they offer you, though. They tend to forget humans can’t drink their booze.”

“...What’s wrong with it?” Aleksander ventures.

Milena wrinkles her nose. “It’s poison,” she says. “Literally. The last batch they made was infused with oleander.”

“ _Why?_ ” Aleksander asks incredulously.

“Because all Witchers are insane, and the Manticores express that through poisonous drinks,” Consort Jaskier says, joining them as Eskel Amber-Eyed heads off on some errand of his own. “Welcome, Aleksander, and you have my thanks, as well.”

Aleksander attempts to bow, and is stymied by Aiden’s arm. “I did only what I felt was right, your highness, and I will be honored to serve the Warlord in whatever way I can while I am here.”

“Right!” Aiden says. “That’s what I was thinking - what d’you think, songbird, could he take over the courtly graces lessons for the trainees?”

Songbird? Maybe Lambert could get away with calling the Warlord by his bare name, but giving the Consort a nickname seems beyond the pale - surely Consort Jaskier will be offended -

“Oh, now there’s a thought!” Consort Jaskier says, beaming. “It would certainly be worth a try. The lads need to learn to deal with lords as equals, you see,” he adds to Aleksander, “and I’ve been giving lessons as I can, but really they could use a dedicated teacher for that, and for things like polite conversation and table manners and how to recognize subtle insults and so on. They’ve got to know how it works, especially these days - it’s not just negotiating contracts they need to worry about, but representing the Wolf across his lands.”

Aleksander blinks at him for a moment. “I...I could do that,” he says at last. He’s quite _good_ at that sort of thing, really. He likes having scripts for things, and that’s all that sort of thing _is_ , is the scripts for dealing with court life. He’s never tried to teach, aside from helping Mikolaj when they were younger, but he’s willing to learn how.

“Lovely!” Consort Jaskier says, clapping his hands in delight. “We’ll give you a few days to settle in before we set the trainees loose on you. Jan has set aside a room for you, and - oh dear, is that all your baggage?”

“Everything I could grab from the manor,” Aleksander says, cradling the small pack a little closer. “I still have some things in Tretogor that Patryk - my former manservant - said he’d pack up for me.”

“We’ll send word to have those brought, then,” Consort Jaskier says briskly. “Well, if _that’s_ all settled -”

He’s interrupted by a cry of, “Sasha!” from one of the doorways, and Livi comes shooting across the hall, barreling into Aleksander and hugging him tightly. Aleksander stumbles backwards and is only kept from going arse-over-teakettle by Aiden’s arm holding him up. “Sasha, you’re alright!”

“Livi,” Aleksander says. Livi pulls back, hands on his arms, and looks him over as though checking for injuries, and Aleksander takes the opportunity to examine her in turn. She’s wearing _trousers_ , which is something of a shock, and there are inkstains on her fingers and the hem of her long tunic, but she looks as happy and healthy and comfortable as Milena does. “You’re safe, you’re here - you look well!”

“I am,” she says, beaming up at him. “I’m Eskel’s privy secretary, and I’ve got a sweetheart - you should sit with us at supper, you can meet her!”

_Her?_ Aleksander thinks, eyes widening. Livi has a female lover? And is saying so in front of the _Consort_? And no one else seems to be batting an eye? And, for that matter, Livi has been made the privy secretary to the Warlord’s right hand in the less than a month she’s been in Kaer Morhen? He has no idea how to react to any of that. “It would be an honor,” is what he says, though, because that’s what courtesy is _for_ , for knowing what to say when you really, really don’t.

“Stealing another one for the Cats, Livi?” Milena teases.

“Nah,” Aiden says. “He’s no Cat, and neither are you, Livi-girl. _Milena_ is a Cat. You’d be a Crane, I think.”

Livi cocks her head and considers that. “I don’t blow things up _nearly_ often enough, but I suppose they do like to have things all written out neatly,” she says after a moment. “What’s Aleksander, then?”

“Well, which School is full of the sort of fools who look at the evil in the world and decide to go and fight it, hm?” Aiden asks, chuckling.

Livi and Milena both giggle. “Wolves,” Milena says, looking up at Lambert with a sweet smile.

“Got it in one, Kitten,” Aiden agrees.

“Ooh,” Consort Jaskier says, rather dreamily. “ _The young wolf of Redania / had two paths at his feet / for honor pulled him leftward / and sworn oaths pulled him right…_ ” he trails off as Milena and Livi begin to giggle. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.”

“He does that,” Milena says to Aleksander, in the tones of one confiding a secret. “Rather a lot, actually.”

“...As a bard should?” Aleksander says.

“Precisely!” Consort Jaskier grins.

“Come on, Sasha, we’ll show you your rooms and leave Jaskier to his composing,” Milena says. “And then after supper we can horrify you with the hot springs, if you like.”

“How horrifying are the hot springs?” Aleksander whispers to Aiden as Milena and Livi and Lambert lead the way out of the hall.

Aiden grins down at him, showing a great many very white teeth, the canines perhaps a little sharper than a human’s would be. “Depends on how many naked women you’re used to seeing, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says, and feels his ears go hot. He’s...not actually seen a naked woman before.

Aiden chuckles. “Eh, don’t fret, pup, I’ll protect you,” he teases, and Aleksander blushes even worse, because that suggests he might see _Aiden_ naked, and he’s not sure he can cope with that at _all_.

*

Geralt and the last few Witchers from the expedition to Redania come through the portal late in the evening - well after supper is over and most of Kaer Morhen’s inhabitants have gone to bed. Jaskier and Eskel are waiting for them, though, with Ciri fast asleep in Eskel’s lap.

Jaskier rises and hauls his beloved lord into a tight embrace, and Geralt clings to him like a drowning man to a thrown line. “My love,” Jaskier murmurs. “My wolf.”

“Lark,” Geralt mutters, and tucks his nose a little more snugly into the curve of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier thinks very hard about how much he loves his darling wolf, how happy he is to see him home safely, and how very glad he is that the day went as well as could possibly be expected given the horrid way it started. Slowly, the tension drains out of Geralt’s shoulders.

“That is a damned good trick, catmint,” Eskel says quietly. Geralt hums agreement.

Jaskier chuckles softly. “Aren and his girls are settled into the big suite on the Manticore hall, have eaten their own weights in food, and will probably be ready to explore a bit tomorrow. Aleksander has been adopted by the Cats, and we’re going to try him as a courtly graces teacher for the trainees. We’ve gotten messages from Cintra and Aedirn confirming that Calanthe and Gwidon understand why we had to invade Redania, and since Ciri stayed out of the way like you told her, we do _not_ have messages from Cintra asking how we’ve come to have a girl who looks exactly like Pavetta living here. Come to bed, my love; there’s nothing left to do today.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and lifts his head to kiss Jaskier, soft and sweet. “Yes.”

Eskel rises with Ciri in his arms and leads the way out of the hall. He doesn’t bother to bring her up to her own room at the top of the tower - she’ll want to see her father when she wakes, and the bed is more than large enough for four. Jaskier herds Geralt into bed and Eskel puts Ciri down beside him, and the two of them kick off their boots and curl up around their beloved lord and their cub, a comfortable heap of limbs and quiet snoring.

In the morning, Jaskier wakes briefly when Ciri does - she kisses her Papa on the forehead before bouncing out of bed and going pelting off to find some sort of mischief - and promptly goes right back to sleep; he wakes a second time around midmorning, snug between his Wolves. They’re both awake, of course, but they seem perfectly content to lie there curled around him. Geralt has his head tucked into the curve of Jaskier’s throat again, breathing in his scent; Eskel is playing idly with a lock of Jaskier’s hair, his other hand tangled with Geralt’s where they rest on Jaskier’s stomach.

“Mmm,” Jaskier sighs, snuggling down happily. “Good morning, o Warlord of the North, ruler of Kaedwen, Caingorn, Kovir, Redania, Temeria, and the top half of Aedirn.”

“ _Hm_ ,” Geralt grumbles.

“What’m I, chopped liver?” Eskel teases.

Jaskier turns his head to kiss Eskel gently. “Good morning, Eskel Amber-Eyed, right hand of the Warlord, who speaks with his voice and commands in his name.”

“Ugh,” Eskel says, “me and my big mouth.” Geralt chuckles, breath puffing warm against Jaskier’s throat. “Good morning, catmint.”

“So,” Jaskier says, “I guess we can scrap the plans for a diplomatic visit to Redania. Or rather, I guess we need to add it into the route for the progress next year.”

Geralt groans softly. Eskel chuckles. “Suppose so. Fuck, it’s going to take the whole summer just to make the loop.”

Jaskier grimaces. “Ugh, months without the hot springs. Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?”

“Because it is,” Geralt says, muffled but clear. “Just...unpleasant.”

“Well. That’s a problem for next year. Kiss me, my love?”

Geralt raises his head and kisses Jaskier thoroughly - _extremely_ thoroughly. Jaskier is feeling rather dazed by the time Geralt pulls away. Eskel makes a soft, pleased noise, and leans over to claim Geralt’s mouth; Jaskier blinks up at them and is struck, again, by how stunningly gorgeous his lovers are, and how well matched, the dark wolf and the white.

“You always smell so damn good, catmint,” Eskel murmurs as he and Geralt part, and dips his head to kiss Jaskier, a deep claiming kiss that leaves Jaskier gasping and clutching at Eskel’s shoulders. “Just want to fucking eat you up.”

“I wouldn’t object,” Jaskier manages to say, instead of the desperate begging he rather _wants_ to let spill from his lips.

“Wouldn’t you now,” Eskel says thoughtfully, and bends to licks a stripe up the side of Jaskier’s throat, ending with his teeth clamped very gently on the lobe of Jaskier’s ear. Geralt hums in a tone that suggests Eskel has just given him a very good idea, and bends to place what’s going to be a spectacular love bite on the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Oh dear,” Jaskier says faintly. He’s going to be _devoured_.

Well, there might be better ways to spend a morning, but he’s certainly never found one.

He does try to reach up and reciprocate, at least a little, but Eskel grabs one of his hands, places a tender kiss on the inside of the wrist, and then pins it gently to the pillow and gives Jaskier a stern look to remind him to keep it there, and Geralt catches his other hand, regards it thoughtfully for a moment, and then swallows the first two fingers down, tongue doing absolutely _sinful_ things. Jaskier moans loudly enough that it echoes off the walls.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” Eskel murmurs, and wriggles a little further down the bed until he can breathe hot and tantalizing over Jaskier’s prick. Jaskier whines. Eskel chuckles, a rich dark sound full of menacing promise, and presses a very very soft kiss to the tender inside of Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier shivers and tries to thrust up, and Eskel pins him down, hands spanning Jaskier’s hips with ease, and kisses his other thigh, working his way very _very_ slowly up towards Jaskier’s prick, every hairsbreadth of movement marked with another kiss.

Jaskier lets himself babble, praise and pleas and desperate moans all tangling together; he only gets more incoherent when Geralt presses his other hand gently onto the pillows and leans down to place a matching love bite on the other side of Jaskier’s throat. His Wolves are _astonishingly_ good at this; it simply isn’t fair.

By the time Eskel finally reaches Jaskier’s prick, Jaskier is so desperately on edge that a single long lick, all the way up from base to tip, is enough to tip him over his peak; he thinks he tries to say his lovers’ names, but they come out as a garbled scream.

“Fuck,” Eskel says, and shifts up onto his knees, hand a blur on his own prick. “Smell so good, catmint - gonna make you smell like _us_ -”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, and Eskel growls and spills, hot spend splattering over Jaskier’s chest and stomach. Geralt growls too, a deep sound almost more felt than heard, and presses against Jaskier, rutting against him; Jaskier turns his head and kisses Geralt as fervently as he can, moaning into the kiss as he feels Geralt spill against him.

“There we go,” Eskel says, and leans down to join the kiss; a three-way kiss is never anything but messy, but Jaskier loves it all the same. “Smell like us, catmint.”

“I should think so,” Jaskier chuckles. “Mmm, can I move my hands now?”

“Yes, lark,” Geralt laughs.

“Oh good,” Jaskier says, and squirms until he’s got an arm around each of them, and their heads are pillowed on his shoulders. “There we go.”

Geralt and Eskel both make soft, contented noises, and snuggle even closer, and Jaskier hums a quiet tune and savors the moment, here safe in his Wolves’ embrace.

“We should probably go bathe before dinner,” he says after a while. He doesn’t stop stroking his Wolves’ hair, though, and neither of them moves. Eskel kisses the side of his throat.

“Probably,” he agrees.

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Got to find Milena later.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt chuckles softly. “Got to tell her she almost ended up queen of Redania.”

“She _what?_ ” Jaskier blurts.

“Guess they thought it’d please me,” Geralt says. “Took me and Vesemir a few minutes to talk them out of it. Milena’d hate it - and can you imagine Lambert as Prince Consort?”

Jaskier blinks down at Geralt for a long moment, visions of the _absolute disaster_ which would be Lambert in any normal court flashing before his eyes. Eskel is convulsed in silent laughter, shaking hard enough to jostle the bed. “Holy gods,” Jaskier says at last, “that would be _magnificently_ terrible. Just...absolutely stunningly bad.” It would almost be _beautiful_ , how terribly that would go.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, smiling.

“Truly, you are a very benevolent overlord,” Jaskier says, grinning helplessly down at him.

“The finest,” Eskel agrees through his tears of laughter, and curls closer, biting gently at Geralt’s shoulder. “Our beloved lord, his soul as golden as his eyes.”

“Oh yes,” Jaskier murmurs, as Geralt’s ears go pink. “ _The Wolf came down from his mountain hold / his golden eyes aflame / to find the stolen Manticore / and cleanse Redania’s shame…_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'd and improved beyond all measure by the absolutely amazing RoS13, all praise be unto her.
> 
> Thank you, as ever, to everyone who has left kudos, comments, and support. I can't tell you how much the amazing response to this AU has meant to me, in this chaotic mess of a year. Please feel free to come and say hello on tumblr or discord!
> 
> This AU _will_ continue; I have more plotbunnies than I know what to do with. But I will not be able to keep up the every-Monday schedule; I am beginning to burn out. In 2021, I will post whenever I have something ready; new AW AU installments will go live on Mondays when they are available.
> 
> And finally, I've decided on a faceclaim for my Aiden: Santiago Cabrera as Aramis on the Three Musketeers.

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